A Vulnerable Monster
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. Molly has always been Sherlock's saviour. And she has never been afraid of monsters.


_A/N: I wrote this because of this interview I'd read, specifically, this little phrase, "…what would a modern young woman make of this vulnerable monster?" I always love the fact that if Sherlock ever admitted brokenness to himself, it would be Molly who would see it first. And of course, of-bloody-course, she would be the only one who could fix it. This is a story about Molly's stunning display of quiet strength and why, to me, she is perfect for him._

_This one-shot is spoiler free._

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><p><strong>A Vulnerable Monster<strong>

When he said that she had counted and that he had always trusted her, Molly never expected the extent of that trust and reliance to be this great. She had been his number one solace from the moment he fell from the rooftops at Bart's. She had helped him with the fall and now she was to help him get back up.

However, it was not going well. It had been several months now and he would appear, at random, in her flat. Sometimes, he would burst through her door as she was quietly curled up with a book. On a few occasions, she had come home to find him either thinking in her bath, or asleep in her bed. It was not going well because each time she encountered him his mood would oscillate between a black, seething rage to a sort of white panic. Molly concluded that, just like everyone else, he too was in shock and he too was mourning. He was mourning the loss of his life.

One evening, Molly was in the middle of knitting herself a scarf when she heard frantic knocking on her door. This was unusual. She had not been expecting anyone and Sherlock was hardly one to knock. What was doubly peculiar was that the knocking seemed to be coming from the bottom of the door, as though someone were tapping the floorboards instead. Leaving her knitting, she got up from her seat and opened the door warily. What she saw through that tiny gap was enough to make her gasp.

In a crumpled heap, by her feet, lay the crouched figure of Sherlock Holmes. Blood dripped from his nose, his lips and God knows where else, forming streaks across her _Welcome_ door mat. One hand was outstretched, it had been the one banging against the bottom of her door. The other was wrapped around himself. He was his own tourniquet, it seemed.

"Hello…Molly…" his words came out soft and shattered.

Without a word, Molly reached to help him out as he staggered to the middle of her sitting room. She left him to sit there and ran to her kitchen, grabbing her first aid kit and prepared a few warm, wet towels. She had learnt to be silent at times like these. With her hands, Molly gently urged him to face her as she carefully wiped the streaks of blood off his face and neck, so that she could better study his wounds. As she slowly cleaned him up, she could see the deeper wounds that revealed themselves in his opaline eyes. Sherlock was visibly upset. He was more than upset. He appeared _shaken_.

"Tell me what's wrong…" she whispered gently. Her gaze was so tender.

She had expected him to remain silent. She was even prepared for him to suddenly walk out of the flat again, slamming doors behind him. Still, she wanted to know if he was really all right.

"Does it still hurt? Where else does it hurt?" she asked, her soft eyes trying to catch his own downcast ones.

And then, he spoke.

It seemed like a river that came rushing from nowhere. Molly had not expected such a deluge of description nor emotion. This was a man who stripped everything away to the bone, leaving only the very necessary. And here he was, actually pouring his heart out. He told her how hopeless he had felt trying to sneak back into detective work, following investigations all around London and not being able to intervene. At some point, he had gotten so frustrated from not being able to intervene that he had begun to go around in disguise. And tonight, fully disguised, he had chanced upon a crime scene with the clues to the murderers' identities (yes, there were _six_ of them) in such plain sight that he_had_ to tell the officers. In fact, Sherlock had been so sure that two of them were still present at the crime scene. He tried so hard to tell the officers, the detective-inspector in charge, but everyone had dismissed him as a madman. The mockery from the officers present soon turned physical and they began to assault him, in a bid to scare him off the crime scene.

"This was exactly like the time I told the police about Carl Powers, Molly._Exactly _the same. _Nobody_ would listen to me. Nobody.." he muttered bitterly. "It was like I had become that little boy again. The boy nobody listened to. The 'freak' boy who kept disturbing the policemen."

Molly tried to hush him and attempted to undo a few buttons of his shirt to examine the bruising around his neck and clavicle. But Sherlock, in the heat of his angry recount, flinched violently from her hands and told her not to touch him. Molly knew he was just struggling with all the emotions of the evening and bravely moved toward him, attempting to reach for him again. He shuffled clumsily back and almost wanted to shove Molly away when he remembered a stern a reminder he had given himself: He was to always be gentle to Molly. For she had been his saviour. She still was, really.

"Don't come near me, Molly…" he said, gasping quietly. He was in shock. In shock from having _felt_ again. From the uneasiness and rejection that had plagued him in his childhood.

"I need to get you cleaned up, Sherlock." Molly responded calmly. She had grown accustomed to his dramatic explosions, acknowledging that this was not really him. It was just an unhinged version of Sherlock Holmes.

"You don't want to be near me." he said quietly, "Not when I'm being a monster. A stupid, illogical, _vulnerable_ monster…" His clenched his fists tightly and kept his gaze away from her.

Molly smiled softly to herself and continued to inch towards him. She approached him ever so gently, but fearlessly. Her hands finally reached his collar and slowly and steadily, she undid a few of the top buttons. Carefully, she examined the purple and grey bruises that painted his skin. She could see that they had tried to choke him. Her cheeks momentarily flushed with anger but she soon calmed down. Molly placed a hand on his cheek and brought her face close to him. She peered at him until his eyes met hers. When they finally did, she smiled sweetly at him and carefully stroked the part of his face that had not been cut.

"If there's one thing people understand better than you," Molly said, "It's_vulnerability_."

She reached to gently push his messy wisps of hair from the front of his face.

"But I happen to understand it best," she whispered.  
>"Does it go away?" he asked, just as quietly.<br>"Not quite, Sherlock, not quite." she answered. He had reached for her hands and she reciprocated their grasp gladly.

"I don't mean to be like this, Molly…" he confessed, dropping his head between his knees. "And I don't want to be a monster. Certainly not to you."

Molly chuckled softly and kissed his hands.  
>"Oh, Sherlock," she whispered, with a beautiful smile on her face, "I've never been afraid of monsters."<p>

He looked up at her and the tension in his face seemed to have left. His breathing had slowed down and his expression had softened.

"Now, please, let's get you cleaned up, all right?" she asked him. Her heart was beginning to ache from the state he was in.

"Please, Molly, if you would…" Sherlock replied, grateful for her knowing and loving hands that sewed up every cut and soothed every bruise.

And though he never admitted it, and he probably never will, she had slowly begun to restore the battered and bleeding heart of this very vulnerable monster.

**End**


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